Exercise or My Son?

Feelings of giddiness and anxiousness competed in my stomach as I found myself back at the gym. A short while after vowing to wait to start working out again until my 2-year-old daughter was in preschool (due to her crying inconsolably at the babysitting room), I was back.

An email had popped into my Inbox the day before with a simple subject line of, “Workout Plan.” The sender? My husband. Where I lacked in fortitude to take Avery to the gym’s babysitting room (what we euphemistically call the “play room”), Bob stood strong. He had a flawless plan, he said, and we were going to the gym after work.

Per Bob’s master plan, I would drop our 5-year old son off at children’s yoga while Bob took Avery to the play room. This way, I wouldn’t have to see the pained look on my little girl’s face as I left the room or–more likely–pull myself away from her crocodile tears. Upon arriving at the gym, Bob walked one direction; Robert and I another. And that’s where the exercise plan once again began to crumble.

You see, the basement where my son’s yoga class was being held was not creepy in itself; it was the fact that no other parents or children were in the room when we showed up that was a little off-putting–given the white-haired, pot-bellied man in his seventies who stood at the front of the class drawing a picture of Mickey Mouse on a whiteboard. It must be Mr. Joe, I thought–the substitute teacher that the front desk ladies had mentioned.

It looked like I wouldn’t be exercising that night after all. No way, no how was I leaving my son unattended in a basement classroom with cartoon man, no matter how nice he seemed to be. I guess my renewed exercise routine would have to be kicked off by 5-year-old yoga as taught by a senior citizen. Jeez, he had us doing facial yoga. Facial yoga! What the hell is that? It reminded me of the time another senior citizen taught yoga at my old Manhattan apartment complex and we spent half the time giving ourselves foot massages. (I am certain there are plenty of amazing 65+ yoga teachers; I have merely not had the fortune of yet meeting one.)

So there you have it: one more attempt at real, vigorous, fatburning, body-relaxing exercise completely anihilated. But you should have seen the joy sparkling on Robert’s bright-eyed face. He was doing yoga with mommy! He was exercising like a grown-up (or so he thought anyway) at a real gym!

The outcome of this thwarted exercise plan? I haven’t set my foot back into the gym since.

So if you should pass me on the beach this summer and you notice a little muffin-top spilling over my bikini bottom should I get up the courage to wear a two-piece, I hope you will do me the small favor of cutting me some slack. Lord knows, I’ll understand why I may not be the only mom on the sand with a less-than-perfect body. But my son at least will be the happy kid practicing downward facing dog on the towel next to me.

4 Responses to “Exercise or My Son?”

You have summed up my life. I find myself doing deep knee bends at my boys’ soccer practice so I can say that I “exercised.” It’s hard to see folks running up and down a field and not feel guilty about sitting and watching. Thanks for sharing!

Oh my gosh! I do deep knee bends while the kids take their bath. Actually, I count to ten to let them know that they have to get out in 10 seconds–and that’s when I do my ten knee bends. They’ve come to think of it as a funny game. But alas, I’ve even gotten lax at that! Time to get back on the deep-knee-bend bandwagon again.

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